


The Genki Cuts

by Sexsuna



Category: Jrock, MEJIBRAY, VanessA (Band)
Genre: Amputation, Anal Sex, Blood, Cutting, Dismemberment, Gay Sex, Group Sex, Japanese Band - Freeform, Latex, M/M, Multi, Quadruple amputation, Rubber, Visual Kei, cocksucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexsuna/pseuds/Sexsuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genki (Tsuzuku) has decided that Koichi will be replaced as the bassist of Mejigay. Consequently, he and the replacement (Hyouga) decide to dismember Koichi in order to turn him into an obedient fuck-slave, incapable of typing indecent messages to bangya over Ameba.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Genki Cuts

Dead fish loaded from trucks in the warehouses of the Tsukiji wholesale fish-market made Koichi think of the glittering filth-strewn flesh-markets in the shadow of Nishi-Shinjuku, and with some guilt and revulsion his own regrettable predicament. The smell of the fish that was wafted towards him by ocean-born gusts of wind seemed only to further enhance the guilt and gave birth a strange uncanny nausea as he turned around a corner and came onto the last road towards his last destination.

Soon it rose above the cluttered advertisement signs of a low-rise office block in whose bottom floor was housed an overcrowded electronics shop; his home. A flock of black birds upped and left the roof next to an antenna, and the deep purple afternoon sky where small clouds set ablaze by the flickering neon of the city drifted slowly past like distant asteroids through space assumed an unexpected sinister quality.

Immaculate glass doors and anonymous post-boxes on the wall was all that greeted anyone that passed by on the narrow alleyway; just above the first floor hung loose electric wiring from leaning wooden poles. During summer the owner would make the building caretaker place fake Sago palms just inside the door, as if it would radiate imagined affluence; furthest down within the doors one could glimpse the anonymous aluminium-grace of the two lifts, to the left was a single door to the caretaker’s supply room. Above, the building towered twelve stories of small studio flats with miniscule balconies facing north and south, boasting a façade clad in grey tiles.

The building was - despite the owners delusions of grandeur - a simple structure, though its recent erection and the central location made its rents nevertheless outrageous; a robbery of 110,000 yen a month for the 37 square metre utilitarian oblong prison cell; and it was this exorbitant rent which necessitated they live there, all three of them, members of the same band; indeed, the entire band save one, their guitarist, who lived with his parents in an older house in Edogawa.

Koichi himself hid his otherwise exposed midriff with a bloated white fur coat during the route back from the meeting with the woman who had given him a generous contribution, with which he would finally be able to repay some of the debt which he owed his mother; who in turn had relied upon bank loans to lend him the needed money. It was a delicate and difficult situation, and embarrassing too. He knew that his other bandmembers were not in very much better shape economically, but with the upswing in popularity their band had seen in the last few months, things were definitely looking up. But the banks had been on his mother, so he was desperate – that was how he justified what he had done. He was not yet what exactly the middle-aged woman wanted; but she had been dressed in clothes that must have cost a fortune and insisted upon meeting in the questionably lit basement lounge of a luxurious city-centre restaurant. But she had made no demands, not now, anyway, and that day lay ahead in the future. He hoped he had not done something too bad.

He entered the building and took the lift up to the seventh floor. The corridor was bare save a fire escape map on a far wall next to the door to the stairwell and the small square signs with the resident’s family names. Most were single households. Salarymen, always in a hurry to go somewhere, even if that was nowhere at all; now and then they’d come home late at night, staggering drunkenly, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of prostitutes. Sometimes they sang to themselves. A young woman, a student from a wealthy background, was the only resident of floor seven who was not male. It must be hard, Koichi thought, for her, in the lifts during the morning rush.

He entered his and his two band-mates flat.

 

 

The nausea was still present, so he hurried to the kitchen without paying attention to anything else, and downed a glass of water from the fridge. The tap water was foul-tasting and not generally drinkable here; he thought back on the excellent tap-water in Shiojiri, where he had lived with his now divorced parents for a few years while he attended primary school. The feeling of nausea slowly departed, and he gave a sigh of relief.

The living room was crowded. A television, a game console and a fuck-load of paper, various beverage containers, mostly empty, old plates, fast-food wrapper, plastic bags with who-knew what in them, laying and hanging on door-handles or laying on the dirty stained; the telly was on, broadcasting news commentary, another geriatric politician with nationalist aspirations spewing forth sick xenophobic nonsense there, the same sad putrid story; in a far-corner, walls covered with posters fastened with thumbtack and tape (mostly of their own band, some of others, and a myriad of polaroid photographs signed with incoherent and odd combinations of western alphabet characters and strange squiggles. Standing in front of this atrocity of a wall was the bed of the perpetrator of this aesthetic rape, the drummer Meto; the bed, like the ( _rancid shitstain_ , Koichi thought) fellow himself was a dishevelled mess of old clothes, bed covers (soiled with yellow and brown of varying opacity) and half a dozen handheld video-game consoles, most mailed to the ungrateful shit by fans. Meto probably fucked the lot of the fans he met, especially the girls, whenever Genki or himself was not around.

The door to the room where Koichi and Genki had their double-bed was closed, which was unusual. Koichi took off the ugly fur-coat and hung it flippantly on the rack next to the flat door, and then walked across the battlefield of the living room – and the stench of fermenting fruits – to the other room, and opened the door.

The room beyond was quite the dramatic departure from the main living room. There were bookshelves; the wallpapers were black with odd thin white inconsistent patterns that went in circles, loops and lines all over the place, and the single window had the venetian blinds closed. On their bed, which was covered in a thick black plastic sheet, was Genki, with his hips thrusting against those of Meto; the latter had either arm tied together so that he was forced to stand on the bed supported by his elbows. He was enclosed in a black latex bodysuit, complete with coverings for his face; something was over his mouth, as well. Genki noticed Koichi’s arrival and his face gave a friendly and pleasant mien, after which he withdrew from Meto’s rear quickly. He brushed some of his black hair out of his face and reached down towards his erection, taking hold of the condom around it and taking it off. Then he proceeded to loosen whatever it was that stuffed Meto’s mouth – some sort of fittings with an inward facing dildo, Koichi soon saw – so that the mouth was partially exposed; there he inserted the condom, though there were no spendings in it.

“Swallow,” Genki commanded and evidently Meto did not mind, for he did so. Then his mouth was sealed anew and Genki brushed Meto harshly off the bed and onto the floor, where he rolled uselessly until he came up against the chair facing the computer desk.

“He needed punishing,” said Genki, “he was being obstinate. Yes, again.”

“Filthy bastard. What’d he do this time?” Koichi approached Genki slowly, almost sensually.

“Refused to change his bed sheets. Have you seen them? Who knows what shit grows there. I had to throw him in the bath. Then I dressed him up and – you know the rest.”

Genki’s prick still stood, the whole magnificent length; the robust base and the wet shimmer of the pale glans; and as Koichi let his eyes gaze upon that perfectly chiselled shape, of both the totality and the prick itself, he found his own member revitalised by a sudden infusion of blood. Genki wore a tight fish-net outfit, covered only by a tightly laced black PVC corset, a pair of gloves of the same material and colour, and a pair of white knee-high boots, which formed a compliment to his pale skin. Koichi felt his own erection push its way up in his tight shorts at the sight of the way the neat square of beguilingly protruding flesh formed between the confines of Genki’s netting; each of them like reminding him in texture and shape of some exquisite bakery.

“I’ll just plug him up so he doesn’t do things he’s not allowed to,” Genki said and looked around on the bed for the butt plug, found it, and went over to Meto who struggled pathetically on the floor and inserted it roughly and speedily. There came a muffled whine from behind the covered mask. Meto’s eyes rolled around sickeningly and focused then on Koichi, and worst of all, it was lust in those eyes, even at that moment! Luckily, immediately afterwards Genki hid that uncivilised things eyes away, and from behind that tightly sealed eye mask those frighteningly hungering eyes could not gaze.

“This prick of mine still demands some attention,” Genki said and motioned for Koichi to approach, but this process was interrupted suddenly by the loud ringing of the doorbell. Genki sighed with disappointed. “Go see who it is, would you? I’m not exactly in the mood.” He stroked gently the warm flesh-coloured length in his left gloved hand and looked teasingly at Koichi.

Koichi spun around and headed for the door, peering through the peephole in the door; he saw a person dressed in a very peculiar manner, though it was not entirely clear how in the limited light of the seedy corridor. He opened the door and the eyes of the stranger outside were utterly alien, yet the way in which he was dressed was such that there had to be some kind of… familiarity. It was surely Genki’s work. The dreamily distant eyes were emphasised by heavy black eyeliner, and framed at the top by a blossoming black and red flower of teased hair that made Koichi to think of a volcanic eruption of the Strombolian type; this was further enhanced by the venomous black lipstick; the chin was small but sharp and features in general quite appealing indeed; below the head enclosed around the neck the collar of the latex dress the visitor was wearing; black and slick as if recently oiled. Below the collar was a slight opening just above the breasts, providing a sort of cleavage from the man, flat chested – even for a man – though he was. The dress had long sleeves that flared towards the endings at the hands, and the short skirt fit snugly around the thighs with an alluring split at one side, revealing an extra minute of meat. Garters tied some unseen belt under the dress to a set of black latex stockings that reached to just below the skirt; he sported a pair of black pumps with thick chunky heels, like something stolen from a 1980’s disco visiting woman in a film.

The detailed assessment of the visitor had taken but a few seconds to complete, but the impression was lasting and left Koichi silent for a disturbing long while before he managed to say something.

“Who are you? Are we… expecting you.”

“You are expecting me,” he replied and tilted his head and smiled like a maid pleased to be of service, “Tsuzuku sent for me. I’m Hyouga. Pleased me you.” Then he bowed respectfully. Tsuzuku was the name he had used for Genki, Koichi thought; he must be some kind of recent acquaintance. The realisation made him feel something that was almost, but not quite, jealousy. His prick stood and pressed uncomfortably against the tight shorts front, but he was used to managing it by the best of his abilities. To an inexpert observer there was no real hint of an actual erection, despite his prick being of average proportions. Not like Meto’s little grub.

Koichi moved to the side and pointed with his hand towards the bedroom wherein Genki was. “Genki, it’s for you,” he said dryly.

“Oh, he has arrived!” Genki sounded cheerful, like it was a package he had been eagerly awaiting for weeks on end. “Don’t be such a downer, Koichi,” he continued, and the addressed saw he was still absentmindedly stroking his erection where he stood in the bedroom amused by the odd struggles of Meto, who was trying to get in under the desk but had trouble getting past the chair, “he’s here for us both! Do you know the band Megaromania?”

“No,” Koichi replied, “Never heard of, not as far as I remember.” Hyouga, who had entered, looked at Koichi with an expression of vague disappointment.

“You guys played after us at a live once!” Hyouga imparted. “I was watching you in the changing room.”

Koichi blushed faintly, but Hyouga took no notice of it, enraptured as he was with Genki’s perfect standing member; Koichi saw how Genki put a hand on Hyouga’s shoulder and guided him down to the lance, and it was not long thereafter that the entire thing, wet and glistening with spittle, was down Hyouga’s throat. In and out with intermittent gagging and a half-choked cough, Hyouga was an expert cocksucker, something Koichi felt sure was why Genki had brought him. Still with his own prick throbbing and demanding urgent attention and release of some kind or other, Koichi entered the room as well, giving on his way a kick to base of the butt plug lodged in Meto’s arse as the poor sod tried to find his way to the door out of the room. The despicable critter gave off a dog-like yelp.

Hyouga was on his knees, but could see in the corner of his eyes that Koichi was approaching, so with a few gently moves had Genki on his knees instead and himself ready on all fours, with his supple buttocks upwards and the tight skirt rolled up. Koichi opened the zipper and brought out his own prick, which was of a proportion not satisfactory to himself (though it was actually of average size). Had the situation been less rushed, had there been less of orgiastic scent (or pheromones, as the thing might be) in the air, he’d have been reluctant to bring it out at all in the presence of strangers.

Hyouga was wearing no underwear. Obviously, Koichi thought.

He spat on his erection and massaged the spittle gently over the entire length, until it was a glistening piston of a perfect engine; at which time it prodded experimentally the desired rear aperture. Said opening proved more receptive than expected, and he was not long in gaining entry to its most cherished depths; soon his scrotum hammered against Hyouga’s. The latter’s prick was inaccessible as it was tightly sealed in the tight dress’ skirt; so Koichi spent no more time thinking of it. Instead he fucked away, carried by wings of the fucking rhythm to exotic dreamy landscapes where in the shadows of lustrous palms hazy phantasmagorical penises shoot wild fans of spendings into the afternoon sky.

Too soon, far too soon to himself, that was, he had himself spent like the cocks of dream; and as he withdrew he left a wandering trickle of white and transparent gunk slipping down the back of Hyouga’s tight scrotum. Hyouga was too busy sucking to moan or give any other response, but not long after his own release, Genki came too. He thrust once more, plunging one last time deep within Hyouga; past these black abyssal lips, into the throat; and there he spent, the seed flowing automatically down to other man’s stomach.

“Good boy,” Genki said and patted Hyouga’s head with the alluringly teased hair. “Now, let us get on with the project you’re here for, right?”

Hyouga looked up and nodded.

Koichi was confused, of course, having little idea of what the other two were speaking of. “Project?” he asked curiously. It was best to be frank with such things, he thought, not let them lay deep in his mind and slowly erode his sanity.

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” Genki said between rapid exhalations, “just you know, we’re in bad need of a new gimp and all. That one,” he pointed at Meto who had managed to find his way to the sofa and lay smelling an aged pizza carton, “has passed its prime a long while ago. The novelty wears of fast with something so… tarnished, don’t you think?”

Koichi could hardly stomach to fuck Meto any more these days, and even Genki did it mostly out of some perverse urge, an embarrassing consequence of improperly channelled mysophilia.

“Play…” Genki resumed with a dreamy intonation in his voice. He walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew two pairs of handcuffs. “Koichi. Let’s play. Right?” His face looked pleading.

Koichi nodded, and it was not until Genki came up close to him and gave him a wet kiss and pushed him down on the bed that he realised he was the one to be tied up; not Hyouga. Hyouga, their new gimp, now more active than expected; for he assisted Genki ably in the task of fastening Koichi’s legs around the ankles rather painfully to the steel bars of the beds foot-end. Similarly treated were his hands. When he was fastened, the two began to gently undress him till he was in the nude, his bare buttocks sweaty and sticking to the black plastic. Genki bent over him and kissed him again, first on the mouth, using his snaking tongue; then onwards, across his cheeks, letting his teeth rasp mischievously against the velvet skin of his shoulders. Then he sat up.

“Hyouga is going to be our band’s new bassist,” he said, and Koichi felt trapped in a more uncomfortable way than ever before. He wanted to get up off the bed and run out. “He’s going to replace you.” A knife right in Koichi’s heart.

 

“Fret not, dear,” Genki said, “You won’t be leaving us, at least not any time soon.” He smiled, a big jovial smile, so stunning for a few seconds Koichi forgot he was looking at a backstabbing bastard whose trustworthiness was that of a virus.

The piece of clothing around his chest was tied at the front, and like the shorts, they could not easily be removed as he had already been fastened to the bed. Alas they instead were simply shifted to the top and bottom, curling up around the cold metal of the handcuffs.

“You won’t, of course,” Genki continued, “be able to carry on your duties as a bassist. But rest assured the service you will be providing will be much more crucial and beneficial, so think of this as a… promotion.” He licked his lips as he paused. “Remember early on when Meto insisted on sitting like a handicapped in that old wheelchair? Sitting there like some lame bastard with that bloody cuddly toy. Think of this like that, only this is for real, none of that fake shit.”

Koichi swallowed. “What are you going to be doing to me?”

“Removing excess fat. Weight loss guaranteed. Slimness – forever. We’re… rationalising the infrastructure. Like the closing of a little used rural line, the removal of a road that no longer leads anywhere, that sort of thing; you understand?”

Hideous ideas flashed before his eyes like a flock of hungry locust, too many of them at once to see any details; the vast collective becoming a single black fog, a cloud that drifted across dry wheat and maize and ate what it could, leaving a forest of barren skeletons in its wake.

Genki put his hand under his head and looked perfidiously sympathetic; clogged with thought; and then he tilted his head nonchalantly and smiled; a quickly stifled laugh still audible as a faint trace as he finally spoke the truth outright: “We’re going to be taking your limbs off!”

What? Why? Questions ran through Koichi’s head. What good would that do? Maybe it wasn’t about that, though, but maybe some deranged desire of Genki’s and his new altar boy, this Hyouga, with the beautiful hair and the exquisite lips; who, even now, untouched by the conversation, went down on his knees, leaning forward against the bed, taking in his mouth Koichi’s cock, which despite of all that had just been told to him stood without wavering. Without shame it continued to stand, as if, deep down, he was aroused by the prospect of the horrific proposed dismemberment; in his eyes formed little pearls of briny tears, which eventually rolled down his cheeks, taking with them feeble traces of the eyeliner he had worn for his visit to that sugar mum.

He’d never see her again. Would he see anyone? His tongue felt heavy, on the verge of falling down his throat, choking him. The muscles in his neck seemed to convulse fleetingly as he tried to speak, but eventually he managed with a weak voice to produce an audible sound. It was still a few seconds more before he mastered speech again.

“You… can’t do this…,” he said. “They’ll find out, that I am gone. Where are you going to be keeping me? How can you even do this, you’re not a bloody surgeon; I’m your friend, more than friend, how… I don’t… what’s wrong with you?”

“I know about your visits to those sugar mum. It’s a disgrace.”

Koichi swallowed heavily. “How…” he meekly managed. “But… I had to… I didn’t want to… it’s no—“ His words degenerated into imbecilic stammering and incomprehensible whine. Genki’s eyes didn’t blink, the flash of sympathy had quickly departed; his face was steel, a mountainous riverside not affected by the small waves that struck it; he was space, black and infinite, a vast barren cold landscape; a lunar panorama of grey rocks.

And even in this moment of confusion, dancing eerily on the verge of the abyss of bottomless madness, his prick stood. He was ashamed. His cheeks flushed red.

“I need to go get some tools,” Genki said, and as he walked he slowly frigged his now once-more erect member; no doubt with a head full of psychotic and violent sexual fantasies. He turned around at the door out of the bedroom. “And as for what others will think – I know about your debts. They’ll be paid. More importantly, as far as the public is concerned, you’ll be just another vanished visual musician. It’s not that rare, you know? Happens all the time. Some buggers run away and no one hear from them for who knows how many years. There’ll be rumours, of course, but so what? There are always rumours. It’s all sheer nonsense, it’ll muddle the water. The truth, then, remains elusive.” He smiled and went on his merry way, kicking with his heels at Meto who now lay on the sofa, up to no good, struggling to frig himself but meeting no success whatever.

Through all this and without interruption, Hyouga sucked diligently and well, and just as Genki returned into the picture, materialising at the door with a large blue toolbox, Koichi released a voluminous spend; and as with Genki, Hyouga swallowed the lot and wiped his mouth with one of his bare hands. The release did not, however, much deter Koichi’s erection, as it still remained in half a cock-stand thereafter.

Genki sat down next to the box, and fiddled through it. Metal against metal seemed to thunder up from its insides and echo through Koichi’s head. Finally, he brought up a pair of what looked a strong quite thin rope fastened on one end to a piece of wood.

“You’re not putting that on me!” Koichi whined.

“Don’t be noisy and obstinate,” Genki said and temporarily put down the item he held. “Hyouga, fetch something to shut him up with.” The other man looked around, and upon seeing nothing suitable vanished into the common room, only to return briefly carrying with him some old soiled stockings of Meto’s, covered with grimy stains of urine-caked semen and other nameless things, and when it was brought up to Koichi’s face he gagged pathetically. Hyouga shoved it in without complaint, and Koichi felt the rough textile dryness against his tongue and palate; and as his saliva made contact with that vileness the taste urine became pronounced, and it was with some difficulty that he eluded vomiting.

Hyouga tied then around Koichi’s head a torn shred of linen he must have found under Meto’s bed, and this forced deeper into his mouth that ball of nastiness whose rancid taste only grew more and more revolting until the point came where Koichi dry-heaved; Hyouga responded to this by slapping him across the face. Somehow, this stopped the nausea. Genki had evidently found a further piece of cloth on the floor, and this he proceeded to tie around Koichi’s head, so that it covered his eyes.

Koichi could see nothing.

“That’s better,” Genki said, “Now you’ll be less disruptive. This is all for the greater good of the band; that is, the organic community of the extended band-family, you know.”

Then Koichi could feel the rope close around his left leg, not too far above the knee; and then both Hyouga and Genki seemed very close, both very tightly securing the improvised tourniquet. It grew from a tightening sensation to a warm, almost burning low-intensity pain, which gradually evaporated into mere numbness. Soon he could only feel his leg as a construct in his head, there was no response from down there at all. Because his eyes were covered, he could see nothing, so instead had flashing images his brain created of what those people – of whom at least Genki was supposed to have been his friend! – were doing, mulling over how to proceed.

They whispered amongst each other, but Koichi was quickly beyond caring enough to decipher the words they spoke. He heard them move about, lift something up from that tool box, up from the empty rattle of the iron confines; they giggled, as though it was a game to them, just a matter of having a laugh.

When the serrated egg of what he deduced more by logic than any clear indication struck his leg, he felt not much more than a strangle tingling. But the tingling soon became a searing, sharp pain that burned away at his mind, and soon he felt in his head the beating of his pulse, thundering in his ears; reverberating through his skull; and then, the feeling of balancing at a threshold, and falling down into something else, landing in an ocean. He could feel the taste of the salty water on his tongue.

In his mind formed images and visions out of the shadows. His legs were stuck inside the mouths of enormous insect-like creatures, whose mandibles dug away at his flesh, hacked, piece by piece. Loose fragments fell to the slick rocky floor illuminated by unseen angry orange fires and slapped against it like cow shit. He was being digested as he watched, from the mouths of these things sputtered vile steaming acid, and now and then shot from their gaping maws sputtering of fire that burned against the tatters where his legs had been.

He bathed in fire until sweat flowed and dripped to the ground like the million year drips from a cavern-roof, ready to form into stalactites and stalagmites. The sharp rocks protruded from the cavern-floor, sharp like knives. He felt himself be dropped onto them, and they severed his legs from his body.

He floated suspended from his arms.

His arms gave way and he fell into another abyss below.

Over an ocean of bubbling magma from which rose seething clouds of blue-tinged gas he hung helplessly. Molten rock was sprayed against the useless stumps of his arms. Sweat washed down from him and vanished with a hiss as it struck the lava.

Something was swollen inside his mouth.

And then suddenly he was cold. He felt like an ice berg floating through Antarctic waters, far away now from the searing lavas of Mt. Erebus. He began to shake as the world dissolved in an earthquake of preternatural violence. The caverns collapsed and fell in on themselves, the oceans sloshed viciously as in a ferocious storm even in the absence of any dark clouds; the world vibrating like a sex toy.

Then all was dark; then all was light; again and again; a passageway, a corridor formed at whose end was a bright red light which spread like warm poison darts into the dark recesses in which he found himself. His hands touched wet concrete walls. The red light expanded, and in its attenuated light he thought he saw that his hands were covered with blood.

Blood flowed from cracks in the walls. A slithering shape emerged from the cracks, behind it a white burning light that flickered like a chemical fire; its eye was the size of a wheel tyre, glowing golden around the edges, with an enormous black pupil that moved uneasily within its confines. It seemed to meet him, stare right at him, through him, beyond into eternity; and then it placed a slimy tentacle upon his shoulder. He could feel it pulsate sickly, and the wet shape was rough, covered with little ridges that seemed to move with conscious direction; intention, intelligence.

Then more of those arms came around him, spinning around his torso, covering his eyes and face, and he flashed cold, then warm, then cold again, and all was black and still, and he heard or thought nothing.

 

 

He came to lying still in the bed. He wasn’t tied down any more. His eyes were still covered, but his mouth was not. It tasted awful, of urine, blood and something else, and it was terribly dry. He was thirsty, and when he tried to speak he realised he could not. Air passed through his mouth from his lungs, but he could not form words. His neck felt stiff, and his eyes were sore underneath the cloth that sheltered them. He tried to reach up with his left arm to move the cloth aside, but he could not. For a few seconds he imagined his arm was moving closer, but it soon became clear to him that it did not. The cloth over his eyes did not move. He could not touch it, or indeed touch anything at all with his fingers. He tried to flutter with his arm like some man playing a bird, and it felt oddly light, but not much seemed to move; there was too little resistance in the air, not enough muscles active.

Of course, he realised. On some level he had realised it from the very start; they would not settle for just his legs. They had removed his arms. Now and then he would feel that they were still there, tingling sensations as from the careful prodding of needles.

How long time had lapsed? _Days, weeks_? He had no idea. Someone came into the room without speaking, but he could tell from the smell that it wasn’t Genki. It must he Hyouga, he thought. The stranger let him drink from a glass. It overwhelmed him, and some went down the wrong pipe, making him cough.

He fell asleep again. It was a satisfying dreamless sleep.

 

For the next few days, he was fed regularly. Someone, he didn’t know who it was most of the time, would feed him. The cloth that blinded him was not removed. He was allowed plenty of sleep and plenty water to drink. A few times, some kind of medication was applied to the stumps where his limbs had been, and it seemed to ease the near constant and intolerable itch. He was given a few pills, too; painkillers, antibiotics, maybe, he didn’t know.

It must have been almost two weeks since they had destroyed him when they finally removed his blindfolds. At first the world was blinding, and he could not see anything; his eyes burned, and he had to close them fast. But he kept on trying to open his eyes, just for a little while at a time, until he again could see. In the muffled afternoon light the room was golden. Rays of light cast a shadow pattern left by the window curtains on the floor. The plastic on the bed had been removed, he felt the softness of the duvet against his back; the room was silent. He heard filtering through the walls and window the distant noise of the rush hour traffic and the clicking of a train passing across a set of points at Shimbashi station.

Then the door opened, and Genki entered, his navel exposed through a shimmering black tank-top decorated with little glitter stars, underneath it his trademark fishnet shirt, and below a skimpy pleated PVC skirt sealed around his waist by a similarly textured belt. He seemed to be wearing some kind of stockings too, but Koichi was still too much in shock to pay much more attention. His face was happiness incarnate, eyes deep brown glowing with playfulness, which made the situation all that much more absurd. He was trapped, left to the whims of madmen, who at any moment might get it in their confused heads to do unspeakable things to him. And he could not run, not escape.

“You’re doing well”, Genki said, “recovering faster than I expected. You’ve even healed a good way. Unfortunately you lost consciousness early on, mostly due to the mental shock of it all, but we managed to get through, and only with a little bit of blood transfusion.”

Transfusion? Just what sort of medical knowledge did Genki possess, and what sort of equipment did he have access to? Koichi’s head hurt.

Genki walked to Koichi where he lay on the bed, took a sturdy hold around his upper waist, arms eventually lodged in the armpits below his pathetic stumps, and lifted him off the bed. Without much exertion, he was carried out of the bedroom and into the living room, and sat down on a chair, so that he could see himself in the big mirror doors of a little used closet.

His faded pink hair was greasy, not having been washed since the day his limbs were detached like they were loose parts on some bloody doll. Genki leaned towards a shelf and turned back around, this time with some ointment on his hands, which he proceeded to distribute over the slowly healing stump-ends.

“This is for the itch,” he said slowly, “I’m sure you know about that. To keep the surface a bit more protected I’ve prepared a surprise…” He kneeled down next to a bag on the floor, and rummaged through it. He found what he was looking for, some small black pieces of clothing.

“Stockings…” he said, “for your stumps.”

Koichi rolled his eyes disobediently, but could do little to resist as Genki dressed his stumps in the latex coverings. At their top was white frills through which ran black laces, whose two ends Genki tied together to keep them firmly in place. When all four were attached, Koichi’s prick stood twitching eagerly, growing into the sky like a plant thirsting for the sun’s rays.

“Shameless, you are!” Genki said and laughed. “No matter what one does to you, you get hard. I know you like what we’ve done to you.” He turned towards the kitchen, from which some shuffling could be heard. “Hyouga,” Genki called out, “our new plaything demands your attention!”

Sounds of plates being put down were heard, and soon after, Hyouga came into the room. He was wearing same outfit he had worn on Dismemberment Eve, that very same dress and stockings and whatnot; and he hurried out into the living room, and without saying a word he had engulfed Koichi’s length in the warm tomb of his mouth.

While Koichi’s prick got the first attention in a long while, attention it justly deserved, Genki shooed Meto into the bathroom. Before the door closed, Koichi saw in Meto’s eyes a glare of jealousy. It was obvious he wanted to be the one without limbs, to be the perfunctory sex doll, the recipient of so much attention… and sperm.

Genki returned and reached in under the hem of his skirt and brought out his own erection, and stepping over Hyouga, who was kneeling on the floor, positioned himself in front of Koichi’s head. Koichi opened his mouth and gave it permission to enter, taking the beautiful well-shaped organ in his watering mouth, letting his tongue play across its surfaces; across the sensitive glans and the rolls of skin the bottom of the latter. He slobbered voluminously over the entire thing, and Genki soon began to assist by slowing moving his hips, the prick following; thrusting into his mouth. Koichi tried to keep it as much as he could, like a vacuum, like a door thrown open on an airplane at high altitude.

Soon Koichi released his load in Hyouga’s mouth, and as Hyouga moved away, Genki withdrew from Koichi’s mouth, and while slowly frigging the saliva-drenched erection repositioned himself below Koichi’s rear. He shuffled the latex-clad stumps aside and prodded the entrance to Koichi’s inner sanctum, and was not long in gaining entry; soon the wonderful engorged protrusion had been swallowed up by the receptive sphincter.

Hyouga, meanwhile, moved to stand next to Koichi, and with Genki’s compliance reorganised the scene so that Koichi no longer leaned against the chair’s backrest; Koichi’s head now facing upwards, Hyouga inserted roughly his own prick, which Koichi had not previously seen. It was slightly smaller than Genki’s, about the size of his own, and was bent just a little bit upwards, so that in his current position, it was just entering at the right angle to go into his throat. Years of training and relentless sexual exploits meant that Koichi had little in the way of a gag reflex left, so there was no trouble on this front: Hyouga easily fucked away at his mouth, and Koichi worked hard to please with his agile tongue.

Holding him between them, Hyouga and Genki proceeded to plunge the depths of his throat and arse respectively, until such a time that they both came almost simulanteously to voluminous spend; Koichi felt the warmth fill his bowels, Genki moaning with satisfaction, and as if on cue, Hyouga came too, right into Koichi’s throat.

The stuff went down with ease, though he coughed briefly. Genki withdrew and Koichi felt something slimy flow down the back of his arse, flowing in the valley between his buttocks. Hyouga breathed heavily and sat down on the sofa.

Genki plugged up Koichi’s arse with a big red anal-plug. “You won’t be going to the bathroom without our assistance in the future, of course,” he said. “That’s all right with you, isn’t it?”

Koichi felt it was not appropriate for him to speak, and he had not said a word since he first returned to the conscious world, but he nodded obediently.

He had won the war with himself. He was content.

Genki cocked his head and smiled innocently.

 

 END.


End file.
